


Honey

by Venutian



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Gender Neutral, Giant/Tiny, Macro/Micro, POV Second Person, Shrinking, Unaware, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 10:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venutian/pseuds/Venutian
Summary: Gender non-specific. No use of '(Y/N)'You are trapped in the honey when the beekeeper arrives.You look up at her, into her hazel brown eyes, and you can feel a part of your soul melting away, burning a hole inside of you. And then she blinks, and she is filling that hole with herself, pouring her molten vibrancy into your spirit in a sunburst of colors.
Kudos: 16





	Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Right off the bat I want to make sure everyone who clicked on this read the tags and knows that this is a vore fic b/c I know that summary was kind of flowery and can be taken in a sort of metaphorical sense.
> 
> This is the fastest I've ever written & published a fic, it being only a few weeks in the making instead of the usual few months, so it's just a short and sweet little thing! I've had this idea stuck in my head and I wanted to get it posted before the S12 finale (which, as I post this, is less than half a day away). Enjoy!

You had shrunk one warm morning, without warning and without reason. You’d never known anyone to shrink before and yet it had happened to you, right as you’d been taking a walk through some gardens. Your diminished form had landed in the middle of a blossoming flower, its orange petals curled up around you. Nobody had been there to see it, and nobody had come to your rescue. You had sat there in that flower until the bees had come, at which point you’d realized that you’d gotten coated in pollen. You’d tried to run but it was too late; you’d gotten caught to the fur of one of the insects. It had unknowingly lifted you out of the flower and into the air, and your stomach had done flips as you’d been carried across blurry fields and taken to a stone beehive on a cliffside. As if that wasn’t bad enough, you’d gotten stuck in the honey when your bee had landed on one of the combs and that was where you’d spent your afternoon.

Time passed slowly when there was nothing to do. You had frequently licked at some of the honey that dripped down over your lips, testing the qualities of your cage. The fragrant quality of it almost takes you away, and you’d let it if it could, take you to the place where the wildflowers ran rampant and the peaches were so plentiful that they dropped from the branches and melted into the ground. The early summer when the ground was still wet in the morning and the frogs chirped before the twilight hour. Sweetgrasses, the taste of some place you’d never visited but somehow still called to you as home. If it could take you there, to those places that melted on your tongue, then you could be free, but alas, there does not seem a way to free yourself from the honey. Drenched in it, it is the flavor now of you too, the Human hand that had dared touch that pristine river of gold. 

A sliver of light is visible through a crack in the mountainside hive, marking what must be the entrance. It had been dull when you’d first arrived; the mountain had blocked most of the morning sun. But then the morning had turned to afternoon, the sun peaking over the ridge and lowering down the other side, and the light had grown brighter and brighter until you couldn’t see much of anything at all aside from a blinding yellow-white glow. It had been the only way to mark the passage of time. 

A shadow falls over the hive. You hear a sound from the outside, a sort of scraping, like stones rubbing together, something unlikely to be produced by the swarm of bees. Your sliver of outside world explodes into a gaping mouth of light, fresh air rushing into the hive. The front of the beehive had been removed, exposing you to the side of the cliff. As you squint into the bright open world, a dark figure crosses the opening. It is the semblance of a person enough, figure distorted either by strange clothing or form, and as your eyes adjust to the light you see clearly just what kind of a person it is. A beekeeper. 

The beekeeper wears a sort of mask, the white fabric draping around their shoulders, and the way that the sun gleams around them casts a dark shadow over their protective veil. The faceless nature of the brute strikes into that sort of innate fear of the unknown. It doesn’t matter whether they are benevolent or cruel; you are at their mercy regardless of their intent. And yet, there aren’t any other options but the one in front of you. You try to thrash, try to call out to this person who might save you from your sticky trap, but perhaps the mask has muffled their hearing, for they do not seem to notice your struggle. Of course, any movement inside a beehive can easily be written off as the flitting of one of the insects, so perhaps you do not stand out in any meaningful way. 

Puffs of smoke dance into view, twisting around the beekeeper’s mask and licking the hazy blue sky. The smoke wraps into the hive and you are struck with an awful, pungent smell, unlike any smoke you’d known. Instead of the comforting ghost of a log it comes as a metallic whine, biting, snapping at your lungs and causing you to cough. With the appearance of the smoke comes a strange wheezing, a squeaky puffing, like one of those old-fashioned fire bellows. The bees become agitated, buzzing with increasing fervor and confusion. The device—what is some sort of smoke puffer—is lifted directly into the hive, the beekeeper pressing the nozzle further inside and smoking the bees into submission. Dazed, the bees mostly amble the back of the hive, away from the intruder. If you were a bee, you might have retreated along with them. 

Once the buzzing has quieted, the smoker is removed and one gloved hand reaches through the grey haze, the beekeeper leaning in to access the harvest. The hand wraps around one of the removable columns of hive. It isn’t your column. You catch a whiff of sweet-smelling air as the keeper lifts the honeycomb to their mask, turning it carefully in their hands, inspecting it. Perhaps they would take that column of honey and leave, taking your hopes of escape along with it. 

Unsatisfied with what they’d selected, the beekeeper slides the honeycomb back into the hive, and before you can register what’s happening you find yourself moving. Your section of the comb slides away from the warmth and the security of the hive and into the open air. The beekeeper holds this new comb up above their eye level, inspecting it, and you look over their shoulder to view the landscape below. There doesn’t appear to be a settlement nearby, but then, your reduced size and the height of the hive on the cliffside blurs the landscape to just colors and vague shapes. Live waves on the ocean, the golden fields of the arid season roll and tumble in the breeze, glistening as their stalks reflect the hanging sun, afternoon haze casting an orange glow to the atmosphere. Dry brush and low-growing trees manifest as shapeless blobs, just flecks of green and beige, their branches a muted grey purple. Nothing of interest. Your eyes are drawn instead back to the masked farmer. 

The beekeeper holds the honeycomb in one hand and with one swoop, uses the other to pull the netting of the mask over their head. The wind threatens to blow it back over her face and so she takes the mask of entirely, shaking her hair free and depositing the beekeeping equipment somewhere near her feet. Perhaps she is no longer worried about the stinging or the bees, or perhaps she’s too excited about her harvest to care. Perhaps the prize is worth the price of a sting or two. She brings the comb—and therefore you—closer to her exposed face.

You look up at her, into her hazel brown eyes, and you can feel a part of your soul melting away, burning a hole inside of you. And then she blinks, and she is filling that hole with herself, pouring her molten vibrancy into your spirit in a sunburst of colors. Golden rays sink into your heart, white spots flicker behind your eyes, and you wonder for a moment whether it’s worth it to even breathe when something so much more important is standing before you. The air is too thick for breathing anyways, sticking to your skin and burning your throat, dripping around you like her presence had changed the atoms themselves. 

There is something that you’ve never seen swimming in the air around the edges of her face, reflecting off the sunlight like hot nickels on the pavement. A new sort of energy, colors that had not existed before, sugar candy glistening in a storefront. Tantalizing. She takes in a breath and lets it out, her lips slightly parted and gleaming in the afternoon sun, wet as if she’d just licked them. There is a sort of wild quality to her, unkempt, wisps of golden hair blowing in the breeze even as she reaches up absently to pull it behind her ears. Where it is backlit by the sun it looks white, almost fluorescent, almost brighter than the sun itself. You’d seen something like that in a painting once. Just a glimpse, and now the oils whorl around you, out of the frame you can still see inside your mind, leaping to life as if you yourself had been the one to paint it.

Something about the curve of her cheeks, tinged pink from the climb up the mountain, remind you of the honey you’d tasted. Warm. Soft, running smoothly into the creases of her mouth, which is pulled into a focused scowl. Focused, sure, but the carved laugh lines betray a more boisterous side, of friends and banana peels and howling the last song on the radio. You can see too that there is dust in her eyes. Regular dust, mountain dust that had gathered during her climb to the hive, though it may as well be stardust for the way that her eyes glitter. 

The beekeeper lowers the honeycomb, setting it on a flat surface by her knees. She then takes off her gloves and reaches into the inside of her jacket, pulling out a silver tea spoon. Tilting the comb, she scrapes the spoon along the hexagonal surface, just enough to squeeze out the amber liquid without also collecting any of the wax. The utensil runs over your section, dragging you out from your cell. You pool in the honey near the tip of the spoon, mostly submerged in the honey even as you try to tread in it. There is a dream-like quality to the ordeal, your vision now tinged practically orange, staring up at the impossible. 

There is a feeling of weightlessness as she brings the spoon to her mouth, and for a moment you think she might bite it, perhaps swallow it down before you have a chance to look death in the teeth. But the spoon stops right before it passes through her lips, and as they part you can see back into the dark cavern of her mouth, see the spit draining through the back of her throat. 

Her tongue, pink and glistening, eases out and licks the spoon, starting at the bottom and slowly sweeping upward. It masterfully scoops up the honey, the viscous substance swirling around the tip. Or perhaps not so masterfully, for as she brought the utensil near her mouth, some of the honey drips down onto her lips, forming a sort of glossy sheen. You see it as you fall towards it, slipping down her tongue and down the corner of her mouth, oozing with the amber substance across the pink expanse.

The honey plasters you to her bottom lip. It’s only a thin layer but it sticks, and squirm as you might, you still cannot break free. If you were a bee you could sting. And perhaps you can scratch, maybe even bite if you can manage to twist yourself around, but you don’t attempt it. It’d be fruitless. If you were a bee you would be placated by the smoke of the machine, and so her breath is like smoke, warming your mind to an almost hypnotized state. You breathe as she breathes, caught in her spell as much as on her lips. Perhaps the honey has worked its way in through your ears and over your brain, over your senses. You stare out, at what is close to eye-level for her, and you can feel the vertigo starting as a tingling in your feet. The honey is sticky but it wasn’t indefinite, and it might not hold for her entire return trip, to wherever she’d come from. Once again, you don’t have a choice. She will walk back down the mountain and you will go with her, almost a part of her now, and maybe you can get help there. Maybe someone will even see you. Or perhaps you will fall, become entangled with the threads of her oversized jacket, and be lost and discarded an in entirely different way. 

Her jaw moves beneath you, and you can hear a thick, wet sound as she processes the honey from the spoon. The beekeeper smiles then, mouth pulling up around you, and she mutters some sort of excited exclamation that you don’t quite make out, perhaps at the quality of her harvest. Close to where you are stuck, her teeth sink into the plushy flesh. One taste would never be enough. Her face turns towards the slab of honeycomb, which you can now see she’d set in a shallow, plastic bin. Her nimble hands glide along the edges of the container, hesitating near the rim as she makes up her mind. And then she delicately reaches inside, once again picking the comb up with both hands, and she brings it to her mouth. 

The beekeeper bites into the wild comb. You can hear her teeth sink into the wax, easily slicing through the structures the bees had built, sucking the honey that dribbled down the surface. The honeycomb catches your chin, and as you try to push it away you are dragged along with it past her lips and into her mouth. It’s a flurry of orange and pink, cool and dark, sweet-smelling in a way entirely different than the beehive had. You are caught up in whirlwind of movement, like you are trapped inside a washing machine, not knowing which way is up or whether any given thing you touch is living or comb. 

As a strange sort of respite, her tongue presses you to the roof of her mouth. It is soft and springy beneath you, holding you firmly without being painful. For a moment it is still, and you can hear her breathing, but the pause doesn’t last long. Her tongue rolls you against the harder surface of her palette. Tasting, savoring her treat. Does the aromatic flavor of the honey bring the same vivid images to her mind as it had to yours? Or does it remind her of different seasons, perhaps spent in a different place with plants just similar enough to register. Maybe the taste is completely foreign to her, nothing like home at all, and this is her first glimpse into what your corner of the world feels like. 

Her tongue shifts, pressing a little harder for a moment as the sound of a heavy swallow echoes all around you. The viscous nature of the honey prevents it from going down in just one gulp so she lowers her tongue, letting the remnants pool near the back of her mouth. You can feel the honey oozing around your form, pulling you backwards. You scramble for a foothold, try to dig your fingers into something, anything, even the bumps on her tongue. As if she can feel the movement her tongue bucks, speeding her swallowing process and throwing you against a lower tooth. You wedge yourself by her gum line, trying to hold steady, honey running down your shoulders and against the sensitive flesh. 

There’s a moment in which it appears you might have been lucky, that you have found somewhere safe to hide. The honey and the bits of wax from the comb are squeezed down her throat, disappearing in a flash of pink. You’ve been left behind. But then her tongue finds you, digging you easily out from your spot and flicking you out into the open. The honey is thinner now, more mixed with her saliva, and you find yourself skidding down her tongue, coming to a stop right before the drop-off. The cheeks are softer here, smoother, and this time there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Her lips part slightly, the mountain air and the sunlight flooding in, and you look back at the opening. You can see the honeycomb for a moment, still held between her hands, and then you are plunged into darkness, her cool flesh all around you, pulling you deeper into her system. 

The movement spins you around, disorients you, and it is a temporary state of confusion in which the only things you know to be real are the whooshing of her lungs and the pounding of the blood through her systems around you. By the time your head screws back on you realize your body has long finished the downward journey and is now lying amongst the honey and the comb at the bottom of her stomach. It’s soft, and sort of not at all that unpleasant, maybe even better than you had expected. Maybe that was just the shock kicking in. But it was decidedly _her_ , and if it is her then maybe being inside her isn’t such a bad place to be. There is a spreading warmth that comes with that thought. Cinnamon liqueur, hot and sticky, wrapping around your spine and snaking around your limbs. 

The beekeeper hums with satisfaction, enjoying the fruits of the bees labor under her care, and as she does so the entire cavern vibrates. She is happy, and you can sort of picture her smile, those laugh lines earning their creases, and it’s the feeling of a shared tangerine on a balmy afternoon. The idea of eating more of the honeycomb must be tempting, but she does not indulge. Perhaps it is her trade, or perhaps she had something else in mind for it, but there is a strange sort of jealousy at the thought of anyone else getting to taste that divine honey. She deserved it all.

There is a rumbling around you, grounding your thoughts to the new atmosphere around you. Strange as it is, the cavern of her stomach is not unlike the cavern of the hive. Movements in the dark around you, alive with an energy you can’t translate. The buzzing inside her is different but it’s there, lower in pitch, thumping in a rhythm like the dancing of the bees. Churning, gurgling, processing, honey coating the walls around you. 

She is the beekeeper and you have been kept.

**Author's Note:**

> Ambiguous ending! Whatever you'd like best to have happened, that's what happened ;)
> 
> I've wanted to write Thirteen since she aired but haven't gotten a strong vore vibe from any of the companions so nothing quite stuck. Is using a reader a cop out? Probably lol. I know this is a bit similar to my last piece. I won't be doing another reader insert for a while, so don't worry. I'm not sure what's next but I will be adding more variety to my menu :)
> 
> Ok, fine. This fic is vore, sure, but it's mostly just me waxing about about thinking Jodie is cute. I can live with that!!


End file.
